


Of a Linear Circle - Part IV - Not Mercy Nor Pity

by flamethrower



Series: Of a Linear Circle [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Azkaban, Azkaban is a prime example of everything wrong with fucking Wizarding Britain, Fudge is a complete raging twat, Politics, Time Travel, inappropriate means of time travel out of desperation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 06:51:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12835626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower
Summary: A standalone tale that takes place in mid-January within Part IV of OaLC. Amelia Bones meets Nizar Slytherin for the very first time. It goes very well/it goes terribly.





	Of a Linear Circle - Part IV - Not Mercy Nor Pity

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be published in Part IV, but due to the way the narrative came together, it didn't quite fit.
> 
> Cheerleader-beta'd by @jabberwockypie and @norcumi. If there are any remaining blunders, totally my fault.

Amelia Bones is not one for subtlety. She can be, of course; she would never have risen in the ranks of the Magical Law Enforcement division to become head of the department otherwise. Amelia simply finds that when dealing with others, bluntness often garners more efficient results than flattery, even when dealing with the Minister for Magic.

 _Especially_ when dealing with the Minister for Magic.

“Ma’am?”

Amelia glances up to find her secretary, Ila Patil, standing in her doorway. “Yes, Ila?”

“Your two o’clock appointment is here, Madam.”

She sighs. “Ila, when it’s merely the two of us, I’ve asked you to call me Amelia.”

Ila looks affronted, her long black tail of hair swinging around to hang over her breast as she stands up straighter. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but you’re my employer. That wouldn’t be proper. Oh, and I’ll have tea for just after, as I’m aware of how you feel after certain types of appointments.”

“Certain types?” Amelia frowns. What _is_ her two o’clock appointment about, anyway? Who with? She bloody well can’t remember, but that is why she has Ila. “Who am I seeing today, Ila?”

“Nizar Slytherin, Defence Professor of Hogwarts, Madam,” Ila replies, and then hesitates. “Despite the, er, infamy attached to the name, my younger cousins in Hogwarts say that he is scrupulously fair, and an excellent instructor. Padma says he is better than Remus Lupin, but Parvati disagrees—out of House loyalty, Padma thinks.”

That answers the who of the appointment quite nicely. She’s wanted to meet this mysterious Slytherin since he allegedly fell out of an enchanted painting within the school. Such magic isn’t exactly outside the realm of possibility, but given that it’s the first anyone has ever heard of it happening…well. She likes to see these improbabilities for herself, but visiting the school would put parents into a panic, convinced that something else had gone wrong at Hogwarts. “Why am I seeing this professor, Ila?”

“Ah; that I didn’t know until his arrival, Madam. The professor wishes to speak to you about…” Ila grimaces. “About Miss Victoria Bluebell.”

Amelia lifts both eyebrows, intrigued. “Then please do send him in, Ila.”

The man who enters Amelia’s office is not what she expects to see. He isn’t white, and while the isle of Britain wasn’t purely of European stock during the Founders’ Era…well, old Salazar Slytherin’s portrait in Hogwarts’ Entrance Hall looked to be both European and cruel.

Nizar Slytherin is a man with bronze skin, curling brown hair that looks to have been lightened in the sun, and hazel-grey eyes. The robe he is wearing is dark green with a modern cut over black trousers and brown boots. The material is luxurious, the embroidery at the robe’s collar, sleeves, and hem elaborate in its detail. If she were to guess at ancestry, she immediately thinks of Spain.

He proves her supposition correct when he offers her a bow and says, “ _Buenas tardes,_ Señora Bones. I trust I find you well?”

Manners. Amelia is quite fond of manners. She stands up and offers her hand, the handshake of a man rather than a lady. “I am well, yes. Thank you for asking.” Slytherin does not insult her by turning her hand to force it into a lady’s handshake, but simply accepts her grip as it is, firm without a hint of intended harm to her fragile fingers. “I’m not certain I should ask how you are, given the subject you’ve come before me to address.”

“Yes. That.” Slytherin frowns, a thoughtful expression, not cruel like his supposed brother’s portrait. “May I sit?”

Amelia waves her hand at the more comfortable of her two chairs. They look identical, but one is deliberately designed to cause discomfort. She often places Minister Fudge in that seat when he storms into her office like a raging tornado of idiocy.

Slytherin seats himself with a curious grace of movement before crossing his legs at the knee and resting his laced hands in his lap. “I know you must be dying to ask other questions first. Feel free, Madam Bones. I’d rather get it over with than leave a distracting elephant floating near the ceiling.”

Amelia feels her lips twitch. “That poor elephant. That should not be allowed to occur. I—truly, you are one thousand years old, preserved by ancient, forgotten magics within the realm of a canvas?”

Slytherin nods. “I am. I do have a bag of scraps from the original painting with me, if you’d like to see them.”

That, she can’t resist. She was Auror first. “Yes, please.”

To her surprise, the bag he removes from his robe pocket is plastic and Muggle, but it is indeed filled with not only scraps of torn, painted canvas, but also a warped silver plaque and a few chips of wood. The moment Amelia has it in her hands, she can feel residual magic emanating from all of those pieces. She has always been quite good a determining a spell’s age and it’s type, and what she feels now are odd Preservation Charms that are very old. She can’t determine their task, given their unfamiliar variances, but the painting, at least, is genuine.

Amelia removes only the silver plaque, turning it so that she can see the _N_ that begins his name, the blackened damage that blots the rest of it out, and _Slytherin_ afterwards. “What caused the damage?”

“The warped state was caused by my abrupt, unexpected departure from said painting,” Slytherin answers. “The damage that destroyed my given name was caused several centuries ago by a student casting a blasting hex. I laughed and told them their hexes were shit. They didn’t appreciate the critique very much.”

“I would imagine not,” Amelia says dryly, placing the plaque back into the Muggle bag. She would love to keep this, to examine the threads of these strange spells, but it isn’t hers to take. He has committed no crime, and she cannot confiscate property to suit her own ends. “Where is your family from, Professor Slytherin?”

“ _Castilla y León_. My brother was the Kingdom of León’s Magical Staff Bearer, their lead war mage when he was younger, and the titled Magical Marqués over Castile. I’m five years younger than he, and missed out on the battles that earned Salazar his name.”

“Name?” Amelia repeats, wishing to know more. So much of their history has been lost, and so far, this particular Slytherin is not anything like his brother is purported to be.

“Battle name, magical name—I suppose it would be termed either a title or a nickname now,” Slytherin says. “Salazar was the Emerald Flame of the West. Rowena Ravenclaw was called the Shining Wisdom of the East. Helga Hugðilepuf was known as the Golden Light of the North, while Godric was the Guardian Fire of the South.”

Amelia hears the Norse influence in Helga’s name. It’s easy to see how that could be mauled over the centuries, and unjustly, too. The notion of titles for the Founders is also fascinating, as she’s never heard the concept ever discussed before. “And what of yourself, Professor?”

Slytherin smiles. It emphasizes the faint lines at the corners of his eyes and at one corner of his mouth, a reminder that physically, they are of an age—if the _Daily Prophet_ reported correctly that he is forty-two. Of course, he aged better than she did—pun most certainly not intended.

“ _Protectoris_ , Madam Bones. Protector of Hogwarts, named so by Myrddin himself when he felt his health was no longer up to the task of performing that role.” Slytherin tilts his head. “I was seventeen, but to be fair, Salazar, Helga, and Godric all earned their titles at a much younger age. Only Rowena’s came later, when Myrddin called them to the castle in Moray to begin the task of Founding the school.”

“You’re a walking time capsule, Professor Slytherin.”

Slytherin smiles again. “Yes, well—I’ve forgotten far more than I recall.”

There is a grieving note in his voice that decides her. She will not continue to bloody well interrogate the man. He speaks too easily, too fondly, of the Founders and their traits to be a deceit. She has only one more question, and then they can return to the purpose of his visit. “Your brother, Professor. Did he truly espouse a Pure-blood philosophy, and the removal or deaths of Half-bloods or Muggle-borns?”

Professor Slytherin raises an eyebrow. “Madam Bones, my brother and I are both Half-bloods.”

It’s a succinct answer that tells Amelia everything she needs to know without filling the air with words. Lovely. “I’m glad to hear it. Perhaps certain citizens within Wizarding Britain will heed that truth and begin to behave themselves.”

“Perhaps,” Slytherin agrees, but a faint line appears between his brows. He isn’t convinced, then. Disappointing. It would certainly make her job easier.

 _Are_ , Slytherin also said. Not were. It could be a simple sentence structure choice based on his own continued survival, but Amelia doesn’t think Nizar Slytherin the type to make such casual blunders in speech. If Salazar Slytherin still lurks in Britain, then things will be very interesting indeed…but she refrains from asking. A time and place, after all.

“I have a three o’clock I will need to prepare for, so we should move on to the point of your visit. What is your concern regarding Victoria Bluebell, Professor?”

“Leniency.”

That surprises Amelia more than anything she’s yet learned. “Why on earth would you suggest such a thing?” she asks, frowning. “Miss Bluebell drew a wand in front of witnesses and attempted to murder you before most of the student body of Hogwarts. It is only the magic Auror Shacklebolt informed me of that ensured you were not harmed, though Miss Bluebell herself suffered severe burns to her fingers. The healer stationed in Azkaban tells me that the backfired spell also broke all of the bones in her hands. She _meant_ that spell, Professor Slytherin. She intended to cause your death. Why ask for leniency?”

“Two reasons,” Slytherin replies, lifting his arms so that he can prop his elbows and rest his chin on his hands. “The first…if I hadn’t confronted her, she would not have cast that spell. I could have let the castle’s magic ensure the poison was Vanished and allowed Miss Bluebell to continue her evening. She is not the only student in Hogwarts who is of age and Marked, Madam Bones.”

Amelia clenches her jaw in reflexive reaction, honed by months of Fudge and Dumbledore’s contradictory stories, Fudge’s ludicrous behavior, and the _Prophet’s_ unethical reporting. “Then you believe as Albus Dumbledore does—that You-Know-Who has returned.”

“Believe?” Slytherin shakes his head. “Madam Bones, I have encountered my many-times great-nephew twice now. The first time was on Friday, third November. He fled my presence when I proved to be more swift with a wand than he. The second time was on twenty-second December, the Winter Solstice. He used his own blood to Summon those of his familial line into a trap, a type of Summons spell that cannot be ignored without risking insanity and death. I used a blade coated in basilisk venom to carve a permanent hole in Voldemort’s face when he was overconfident enough to believe he was the victor.”

She gives him a narrow-eyed look. “Have you been conspiring with my Aurors?”

Slytherin seems surprised by that. “I’ve met Aurors Tonks and Shacklebolt, but I’ve done nothing with them that would count as conspiring. Or do you mean something else?”

Amelia lets out an irritated sigh and leans back in her chair. “Because that sounded very much like a proper Auror’s verbal report, Professor.”

“Oh.” Slytherin still looks bemused. “Madam, I merely believe in presenting facts in as clear a manner as possible to prevent misunderstandings. It’s a teaching habit.”

“That is a valid point,” Amelia concedes. “Why should I accept your word on Voldemort’s return?” She suspects; she would be fool not to. She simply does not have concrete evidence beyond the word of two Aurors whom she knows to be involved in Dumbledore’s Order of the Phoenix. She won’t stop them. What they do on their own time is their business. If Voldemort’s return is true, they are already allied with those powerful enough to assist in stopping him. If Voldemort’s return is false, they wasted no time but their own.

It still leaves Shacklebolt and Tonks compromised when it comes to reporting factually on Voldemort’s potential return and activities. “The Minister insists that Voldemort could not have been at the Ministry, despite others saying differently. The staff in the Department of Mysteries were not present in that particular area to confirm or deny Voldemort’s presence. Why should I believe you?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” he says, surprising her again. He certainly knows how to keep one on their toes. “But I believe Voldemort—” Amelia hates that she flinches at hearing the name spoken aloud. “—will eventually reveal himself in a way that no one can deny. Believe in his return when that happens, Madam Bones, and Britain is not lost. However…that reveal will likely prove to be a messy one.”

“It’s already messy, whether or not You-Know-Who is a culprit.” Amelia is aware of her sour tone. Voldemort’s return is currently of less concern than those arrested for breaking into the Department of Mysteries, all bearing Dark Marks on their arms that they convincingly denied having in the aftermath of the war in 1981. If that were not complicated enough, bloody Cornelius Fudge went over her head and released those of wealth to roam free of Azkaban until they return to stand trial.

Despite any matters of Azkaban being Amelia’s purvue. Despite the law that Fudge himself helped to draft years ago that states, with no flowery language at all, that any wizard or witch of Wizarding Britain caught in a criminal act while also bearing the Dark Mark of You-Know-Who is to never be released on bail—no matter what they are capable of paying.

Damn Cornelius, anyway. He never had much sense, but in this, he has left her infuriated, and with few options. If she decries his actions, she reveals that the Ministry is not stable and unified, a fact others may take advantage of. If she ignores his actions, she condones them.

While she is busy damning things, damn _politics_ , also.

“We’re digressing,” Amelia finally says. “What is the second reason you ask for leniency in the case of Miss Bluebell?” That trial will be a simple one, at least, scheduled to occur at the end of this week.

“Because she’s seventeen,” Slytherin says in a soft voice. “Seventeen-year-olds make mistakes. Dead seventeen-year-olds never have the opportunity to learn differently.”

Amelia feels a rare ripple of shock. It’s such a simple statement, and yet such a powerful one. “What if she never learns differently?”

Slytherin doesn’t blink as he meets her gaze. “At least she was granted the opportunity to try.”

Amelia sighs. “Be specific, Professor Slytherin. What is it you’re asking for on Miss Bluebell’s behalf?”

“The fact that she was willing to commit murder in front of witnesses is damning and not to be ignored, though one should consider the fact that the act was also completely foolish, which is often the folly of youth. Tempers are roused more easily.” Slytherin lowers his hands to his lap again, choosing passivity rather than piercing alertness as he states his case. “Ten years in Azkaban as a youthful offender, with the opportunity to complete her education if she behaves herself. An impartial counselor that might help to rehabilitate a young magician into being fit for society upon her release.”

“Education? Counselors?” Amelia scoffs. “We do not provide such things in Azkaban. It is a prison, not comfortable lodgings.”

Slytherin slowly sits up. “I see,” he murmurs. A dangerous air fills the room, one emanating directly from him. “And what does Azkaban provide to its prisoners, Madam Bones?”

“A single small, enclosed cell with sink and toilet. Three meals a day that are meant to fulfil caloric necessity, of which there is not much given their incarceration. Medical attention if it is deemed necessary. A prisoner of Azkaban does not leave their cell until their sentence is completed, or they die.”

Slytherin stares at her. His expression is neutral, but she can feel his outrage like a burning brand. “Madam Bones,” he says, “the Magical Council of my day, the one that would eventually take the name Wizengamot after the English Witenaġemoteven? Even they would consider those conditions to be—to be—damn, what’s the modern term?” He scowls. “ _Despiadado_. Unkind. Pitiless. Remorseless. Ruthless. _Inhumano_. Inhumane, Madam Bones.”

“They are criminals, and not to be pitied,” Amelia retorts, angry that she felt the flush of guilt at his words. “They are not to be coddled.”

“It is so very sad to see how far Wizarding Britain has regressed in how they regard their fellow magical beings, while non-magical Britain has made such great strides in recognizing the need for bettering themselves and each other.” Slytherin regards her. There is still branding heat in the air, but his gaze is like winter’s frost. “A wizarding criminal ceases to be human, do they? They cease to have needs? They are to be treated worse than animals?” He shakes his head. “If you believe all of that to be the measure of justice, you’re as bad as that imbecile Minister.”

That, Amelia takes grave offence to. “Remove yourself from my office,” she hisses.

“Gladly,” Slytherin replies, standing and turning to go. He infuriates her further by pausing with his hand on the door, glancing at her over his shoulder. “On Friday, you will have the opportunity to slaughter, or to hope. We always preferred hope, ourselves. I wonder which it is that you prefer?” With that, he leaves her office before Amelia can even begin to formulate a reply.

That stung. All of it stung.

She is the head of Wizarding Britain’s Magical Law Enforcement. She carries out the law as it is written. Society demands execution for the use of the Unforgivable Killing Curse.

Victoria Grace Bluebell only turned seventeen this past November.

Amelia rests her face in her hands. Damn Nizar Slytherin.

Miss Bluebell’s current age haunts Amelia for the rest of the week. Victoria Bluebell is seventeen by a measure of fifty-nine days on Friday, the morning of her trial. Amelia scowls as Fudge calls the Wizengamot to order with overly grand gestures and pomposity that serves no purpose. Albus might be ludicrous and irritating, but he is not an arrogant bit of useless blather.

_If you believe all of that to be the measure of justice, you’re as bad as that imbecile Minister._

Damn Nizar Slytherin. Amelia continues to scowl as Fudge turns over the floor to her with blatantly evident grudgingness.

“Bring forth the accused,” Amelia says, forgoing any hint of ritual. She is too busy seething to concern herself with further words.

Hooded guards bring in Bluebell, who is quaking between them. Bones watches, her face a stern mask, as the guards use their wands to chain Bluebell into place in the chair. The Dark Mark is an obvious stain on her arm, the sleeve of her prison garment split open to keep it revealed to all.

Bluebell’s cheeks are hollow, her green eyes glittering with fear…or perhaps fever. Her blonde hair hangs in dirty, tangled strands to her shoulders. She looks to have lost a drastic amount of weight since her arrest the previous Monday, but that is no surprise. Those about to die often lack appetite.

Amelia realizes, with a jolt that feels like an electric prod, that she ceased thinking of Victoria Bluebell in anything but simple terms the moment the girl was brought into the courtroom.

Only fifty-nine days since her seventeenth birthday. Amelia looks again at Victoria Bluebell and thinks, _My Susan is only one year and eight months younger. What would I do, were she sitting in that chair, guilty of casting an Unforgivable?_

She doesn’t know. God, she doesn’t know.

“State your name for the record.”

How many has she sent to Azkaban without thought or concern? How many have died in utter misery who might have one day proved to be capable of bettering themselves? Azkaban’s death toll for the imprisoned is…steep.

“Vi-Victoria Grace Bluebell,” the girl whispers. She is still quaking in terror.

Amelia has to carry on with this trial. “On eighth January in this year of 1996, you were caught in an attempt to poison unto death a professor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You were witnessed attempting to cast the worst of the Unforgivables, the Killing Curse, upon another Hogwarts professor when confronted in regards to your poisoning attempt. How do you plead to the charges, Miss Bluebell?”

The girl begins to cry, tears leaking from her eyes in an unending stream. Not blubbering, this one. She opens her mouth to speak, but no words emerge. The girl is convinced she is going to die today. Amelia imagines that Miss Bluebell has already carried through with blubbering, and only exhausted tears are left.

 _Just like a child who has cried themselves out, but grief still remains,_ Amelia thinks, and her stomach sours. Bile burns the back of her throat.

Every seventeen-year old witch or wizard she has ever condemned to Azkaban, no matter their crime, perished in its stone walls before their sentences were concluded. Every single one. Amelia asked Ila to be certain those numbers were correct. Those cold facts are just as accusatory as Slytherin’s soft, angry words.

“The number of witnesses for the event in question means that you are not required to enter a plea,” Amelia makes herself say. “The evidence and testimony gathered by Aurors, your shattered wand, the retrieved poison—all are enough to convict you.”

If the other rumors are true—and she has little reason to doubt—then Merlin, survivor of the magical slaughter at Hadrian’s Wall, named Nizar Slytherin to be his successor as Britain’s war mage. A war mage will hold no truck with oppression, tolerate no threats to those under his protection. A war mage’s role has very specific rules they are meant never to violate, yet every one of those rules centers on the protection of life and land.

What good does it serve to remove the soul from this girl? Who does it protect when they Banish her soulless body by sending it through the veiled archway within the Department of Mysteries?

“Please get on with it,” Fudge interrupts her thoughts. Amelia shifts her eyes over to regard him and finds a red-faced, pompous fool in the dress of the Wizengamot. Fudge stands in the place that rightfully belongs to the Chief Warlock, sacked from his position by the Minister due to a difference of opinion. Whether it is Voldemort or not, that is what the matter boils down to—a bloody difference of opinion that Fudge refuses to hear, tolerate, or contend with in any rational fashion.

It is not the law that is clear in this instance, but tradition. Fudge just helped her to make a decision.

Sod tradition.

“Miss Bluebell.” She waits for the crying girl to raise her head and look at Amelia. “I recently had a very interesting conversation with an intriguing individual. You might find it fascinating to know that the very man you attempted to murder with the Killing Curse has asked for clemency regarding your sentence.”

Victoria Bluebell stares at Amelia, slowly blinking several times in astonishment. “He—he did?” she asks, disbelief clear in her raspy voice. The girl is definitely ill in a way that would be easily solved by a Healer’s treatment…and yet that treatment has not been granted to her.

“Yes,” Amelia replies. The Wizengamot begin to emit waves of quiet sound as its members realize that what is being said is not typical.

Instinct causes her to look up. There are few in the gallery outside of Miss Bluebell’s parents. They are both angry and fearful, and likely to be bearing those Marks themselves.

Severus Snape is also in the viewing gallery. The other man Miss Bluebell attempted to kill is witnessing her trial. He notices Amelia’s regard and grants her a faint nod.

Somehow, Amelia understands exactly what he means to imply. “I will confess that I thought his request to be ridiculous, but I’ve had cause to rethink his words.” Amelia gets out her wand and casts _Silencio_ on the Minister when he attempts to bleat out of turn. “ _I_ currently hold the chair, Minister,” she reminds him icily. “When I am passing judgement, you are to remain silent and respect my words.” She releases the spell; Fudge is sensible enough not to open his mouth, else she might have Conjured a shoe to place inside it.

When Amelia returns her attention to Miss Bluebell, it is to find an utterly bewildered child staring up at her. “I’ve thought,” Amelia says, “on the fact that my own niece is only one year and eight months younger than yourself. I’ve thought on the fact that, despite attaining your legal majority, you are only in your sixth year of schooling. I’ve thought on the obviousness of your actions, your thoughtlessness.

“Seventeen-year-olds make mistakes.” Amelia glances up at Severus Snape, who raises an eyebrow and manages to look both accommodating and snide at once. She wonders if he practices such expressions in his mirror.

“Miss Victoria Bluebell, please attend to my words and hear your sentence.”

Miss Bluebell lets out a pathetic moan, but does manage to straighten in her seat. She is no longer quaking, but that is not a lack of fear, merely resignation.

“You will be remanded to Azkaban for a period of no less than ten years, beginning this very morning of Friday, nineteenth January 1996.” Amelia ignores shouts of outrage and whispers of shock. “You will be imprisoned as you have been for the preceding eleven days. However…” Amelia waits for the fools in the Wizengamot to silence themselves. “If you prove to those who perform their work at Azkaban that your behavior is sound, you may be allowed to finish your education. You _might_ have cause to survive your prison term.”

Amelia pauses again to force others to dwell on her words. “This court is granting you leniency, Victoria Grace Bluebell, but not out of mercy or pity.” Oh, that’s a lie. Bugger-all. “This court is granting you ten years behind walls of rock so that you may endeavor to _think_. You are being granted the opportunity to choose other paths when your life resumes in a decade. As a student of Rowena Ravenclaw’s House, I do hope that you recognize this and choose to take advantage. Guards, please remove Miss Bluebell from this court and return her to Azkaban.”

The hooded guards nod and step forward, releasing the chains on the chair. Miss Bluebell has to be all but carried from the room. If she was crying before, now she is sobbing openly. No sense of victory from one named Victoria, but relief and despair in equal measure.

Fudge finally decides to start speaking again. “Madam Bones! What is it that you think you’re doing? The law is clear—”

“The law does not actually require death by Dementor for the use of the Killing Curse, Minister,” Amelia interrupts him, staring at Fudge as she would an unwanted insect. She might have despised him for undermining her authority alone, but his behavior cements her opinion. “It has merely been a long-standing tradition adhered to not for centuries, but since the beginning of the wizarding war fought on British soil from 1971 until Hallowe’en in 1981.”

“The war didn’t begin until 1975,” Fudge utters, glaring.

Amelia resists the urge to roll her eyes. “The first murders were performed by Death Eaters in 1971. That is an act of war, Minister, no matter what the Ministry ruled. 1975 is when it became worse.”

“Nonsense—”

“My grandparents, my parents, my sister, her husband, and their two elder children were murdered by Voldemort’s followers in 1973!” Amelia shouts. It’s only when others gasp and utter silence descends that she realizes she spoke of Voldemort aloud by name. “Tell me that they were not casualties of that war, Minister. To use a childish term: I dare you to be that utterly crass.”

Fudge’s face is beginning to turn a touch purple. “No one here would say that your family was not a victim of You-Know-Who,” he grates out.

“No, of course they wouldn’t,” Amelia replies with perfect dryness. “They’re too busy currying favor with the wealthy.” While Fudge is still sputtering at the accusation that was not, verbally, an accusation at all, she continues. “As Miss Bluebell’s trial was the only one scheduled for the day, _despite_ my numerous requests that we proceed with the trials of those who were arrested for breaking into the Department of Mysteries, we are now adjourned. Good day, ladies and gentlemen.”

Amelia does not wait for them to make up their minds. She stands and departs, letting the cool stare on her face cause the Wizengamot’s members to part like water before her. Some are muttering that Amelia should have called for a vote, but they forget that in times when the evidence is overwhelming, a vote is not necessary unless the defendant enters a plea of Not Guilty.

She has a destination in mind, and she aims to be there first. She Transfigures her clothes along the way, shrinking and ridding herself of a most unfortunate and outdated hat as her robes abandon foreboding black.

When she arrives, it’s to find that she didn’t succeed. Snape is standing before the fountain in the atrium, regarding it with a suspicion Amelia once reserved for suspected Death Eaters. “I’m surprised you were present,” she says without greeting him. She has learned from experience that he often ignores such niceties.

A man with little patience for manners, one who the _Prophet_ reports is dating a man who seems to have them embedded in his core. She wonders how such differing personalities could even begin to mesh in a proper relationship.

“She is a student of Hogwarts. Professor Flitwick was unavailable due to the classes he teaches today. I informed him I would stand for Hogwarts in his stead,” Snape says without removing his eyes from the fountain.

“There are other teachers in Hogwarts who schooled as Ravenclaws who could have done so.”

Snape’s eyes narrow. “They were either unavailable, or did not see the point in attending.”

 _They didn’t care_ , Amelia surmises from his scathing tone. So odd to realize that Severus Snape cared for Bluebell’s fate when others did not.

“Are you still spying on Dumbledore’s behalf?” Amelia asks bluntly. Tonks and Shacklebolt are given leave to spend their off-duty hours as they will, but they do her the same courtesy and say nothing of their activities. It’s a duality of protection that also leaves her effectively blind but for what her other Aurors and the newspaper tell her.

“No,” Snape replies. She glances up at him in surprise. “The truth of my activities were revealed by another. It nearly cost me my life. It certainly convinced me to cease attempting to spy when it would only guarantee my death.”

“You-Know-Who can kill his Followers who bear the Dark Mark without being near them.” Amelia witnessed it herself, once. To see a Death Eater attempt to turn away from Voldemort, only to light up with the green light of the Killing Curse—to light up from _within_ —had been a terrifying sight to behold. “But since he is not a concern,” she truly doubts that now, “then it must have been difficult to escape a pack of delusional Death Eaters.”

“Mm.” Snape glances around the atrium and then rolls up his sleeve when he is satisfied that no one is observing them. An Unspeakable might be watching, but if they are, they will keep their silence.

There is no Dark Mark on Snape’s arm, though he once bore the discolored bruise of it after Voldemort’s apparent defeat in 1981. All of those captured at the Ministry bear living Dark Marks, dark and bold on their arms.

“How did it come to be removed?” Amelia asks, willing her voice to be hushed, not fearful. “Albus insists that it cannot be removed by any magical means.” No matter what life it seems to hold or lack.

“The very same man who came to you with that proposal regarding Miss Bluebell’s fate removed it. He prevented me from dying, Madam Bones.” Snape pauses. “I was gaining nothing from the task but pain and nonsense. If you have tactical concerns, there are others fulfilling my role.”

“I do not.” She does, yes, but to say so publicly is something she cannot yet do. She is all but certain he is aware of this.

Amelia cannot resist saying, “And then you began dating your savior.”

Snape looks down look enough for his lip to curl in mocking amusement. “Fourth December, Madam Bones. Not Christmas Day, and not eighth January.”

“I see.” Amelia regards the fountain, wondering what the war mage saw when he passed it by on his way to her office Tuesday afternoon. It is her habit to take in its detail, and the meaning it is meant to convey.

Her stomach sours again when her very first thought is, _Oppression. That is what he would see_.

“You should not allow Miss Bluebell’s parents visitation rights,” Snape says, unprompted. “They are rather inflexible in certain beliefs, and would not encourage the sort of thoughtfulness that you claim to wish Miss Bluebell to indulge in. Other members of her family, perhaps, but not the mother and father.”

That is a spy’s intelligence, freely given. Amelia has often wondered why Severus Snape remained a teacher when he seemed to loathe the task so much, but perhaps she has been looking at his life, and his career, from the wrong vantage point. “I will bear that in mind. Thank you.”

“He lied to me, you know.” Snape has somehow buttoned his sleeve again, the lines of his coat straight and flawless. “Professor Slytherin told me that he sent you a letter, not that he visited you directly.”

“Ah.” Snape doesn’t sound annoyed by that. If anything, if she trusts her judgement, she would think that Severus Snape finds that to be…funny.

 _Slytherins_ , Amelia thinks, refusing to sigh. “Well, Professor—Nizar Slytherin certainly did send me a message.”

Snape’s smile is almost free of malice and spite when he offers it. Then he turns and leaves without saying another word. Manners, and such a lack of them. Granted, he served during the last war in a very precarious position. Moody, the terrible, cranky old bastard, is much the same way. Many of the old veterans are, those who saw trial and combat over and over again.

Then the realization hits her, and her knees try to buckle.

The Marks. Those damnable Dark Marks.

Victoria Grace Bluebell is only seventeen. She was a toddler during the last war. She could not have been Marked while underage.

Only Voldemort can grant another the Mark of his followers. It is a unique piece of magic that identifies a Death Eater when nothing else will. Amelia overlooked one of the most obvious clues she’s ever been granted in her entire life…as did the rest of the Wizengamot.

She doubts it ever occurred to bedamned Cornelius Fudge to contemplate the idea.

Voldemort’s resurrection is not a falsehood. It is not fearmongering or attention-seeking. It is not the vainglory of a missing child desperate for attention…a child her Aurors have been quietly seeking since thirty-first of last July, to no avail.

Voldemort lives. No wonder a war mage has returned to her soil.

All of Britain is in grave peril.


End file.
